


Shaken

by cowboyguy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Injured Dean Winchester, Injured Sam Winchester, Laundry day, Post-Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyguy/pseuds/cowboyguy
Summary: Even when they're beat up and bloody, the laundry still needs to be done. Sam and Dean at a laundromat at 2:30 in the morning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a commentfic meme at ohsam, originally posted on [my livejournal](http://cowboyguy.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20shaken).

Sam’s head throbs in time with the sound of quarters dropping into a coin slot, and he braces himself against the scuffed laminate countertop, one hand reaching up to rub at his forehead. He grimaces and swallows, staring down at the floor. There’s a fluorescent light above him that’s buzzing incessantly, the harsh light making him squint. Nothing should be this bright at 2:30 in the morning. It’s just unnatural.

Beside him, Dean limps from the row of washing machines to the dryers against the wall, transferring a load of dark pants into the drum and shutting the door with a bang that reverberates between Sam’s ears. He groans involuntarily, and hears Dean say in a gruff voice, “You just gonna stare at that all day, or what?”

Sam blinks, and realizes he’s still holding a bottle of dish soap in one hand, his bloodstained white dress shirt in the other. “Um…” he says dumbly, forgetting what he was supposed to be doing. He might have a concussion. Or a hangover. Maybe both.

Dean rolls his eyes and plucks the shirt and soap out of Sam’s hands, leaning against the counter to take the weight off his twisted ankle, and begins scrubbing at the shirt, trying to get rid of the stain before it sets in completely. They’re both down to their last clean — _well, not anymore_ — dress shirts, and they’re supposed to interview more people tomorrow, try to figure out exactly what they’re hunting. Hence the laundromat trip in the middle of the night, when all Dean would really like to do is sleep off the massive amounts of liquor he just put into his system.

“Can’t believe you got into a bar fight,” he mutters. He looks up at Sam, one eyebrow arched. “You know that’s usually my kind of gig, right?”

“Can’t believe you fell down the stairs trying to rescue me,” Sam retorts. His head is still throbbing, and he’s not even sure how many black eyes he has — _can’t be more than two, genius_ — but he can still bicker with his brother. Yay for him.

“Ah, shut up,” Dean grouses, still scrubbing vigorously at the cotton. “Just wait until we show up in the papers. ‘Federal agents involved in Omaha bar brawl.’ Won’t that be great.”

Dean’s still talking, his voice a low background rumble to the cacophony of sounds in Sam’s head. His ears are ringing, or maybe it’s that damned light, and he’s pretty sure he can actually hear his own blood pumping through his veins. He turns his head to look at Dean and the world closes in for a second, the edges of Sam’s vision going purple-gray and hazy.

“Dean, I— I gotta…” He sinks to the ground, back against the washing machine, and his skin goes cold and prickly. The room is spinning dangerously, the speckled concrete floor under him shifting in front of his eyes.

“Whoa, Sammy. Easy, easy,” he hears Dean say, and there’s movement, Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, pushing his head down. His hand feels good on Sam’s clammy skin. “You’re okay, take it easy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, bruised ribs making it hurt more than it should. “Dizzy,” he whispers, voice shaky.

“I know, I know,” Dean coaxes. “Just breathe through it. You’re okay.” 

Dean shifts, and Sam feels it more than sees it, the warm weight of Dean’s hands and the soft groan as he eases himself down to sit next to Sam. Sam closes his eyes, blindly reaching out a hand and latching onto Dean’s jacket. He tries to concentrate on his breathing, keeping it slow and even until it feels less like he’s going to pass out or throw up.

“You alright?” Dean asks softly.

Sam doesn’t nod, because moving his head would be bad, but he breathes out a quiet, “Yeah…” He takes a second to steady himself, the dizziness fading, and then mumbles. “How is it that even when we’re not fighting scary monsters, I end up with the head trauma?”

Dean chuckles and gently pats his shoulder. “Maybe we need to get you a helmet.”


End file.
